


...in Silver (with her tears she holds the Rain)

by dame_ordsmeden



Series: My love walks... [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, F/M, Post-Avengers Asgard, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Pre-Canon, description of torture, songfic (sorta)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-04
Updated: 2014-02-15
Packaged: 2018-01-11 03:47:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1168300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dame_ordsmeden/pseuds/dame_ordsmeden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Loki told us how they came together in the first part of the series…<br/>Now, Sif tells us how they came apart (and maybe a bit of why, along the way).   </p>
<p> </p>
<p>(Sif’s p.o.v., spanning from a bit prior to the events of "Thor" thru slightly post-"Avengers".)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Cooling

**Author's Note:**

> At first, I thought this whole work was going to be Loki's p.o.v. - and then Sif surprised me. She had quite a bit to say... and who would I be to deny her? 
> 
> (This chapter's present-time is after the end of "Thor"; the majority of it is a memory.)

 

 

It has rained for nine days.

 

For nine days, I’ve hidden my tears in plain sight in the practice yard. Let them mix with the rain and wash clean away like so much sweat. And if any or all comers thought for a moment I _was_ crying? They could have believed it rage, for any number of reasons: rage at Thor finding happiness in the arms of a Midgardian, rage at the betrayal of our comrade. Rage at life, rage at the wounds I took, rage at… rage itself.

They would have been half-right. They were half-wrong.

 

I have lain awake for nine nights.

For nine long nights, but for dreams of him. The first was of his falling. That one shook me awake; the silent sobs wracking my chest, straining anew the ribs I’d injured against the Destroyer. The next - and all the following, were of his _letting go_ – because that truth fell from Thor’s lips, deep in his cups. Why he shared that with me, I do not know… I could allow myself to hope that somehow he _knew_ or _learned_ or _was perceptive_. I  don’t allow myself that luxury, though. Because he’d have been half-right. He’d have been half-wrong.

Somewhere in the years, Loki slipped away from me.

It went softly at first – a turned head, a missing brush of hands, a silence in conversations gone a breath too long. Then harder – a remark, a twist of his lip or mine, a night alone, a week alone, a search of the palace for him ending fruitlessly – only to have him saunter into a meal, masking his breathlessness or weariness or wounds with casual arrogance. I came to see him as a cat – one of the feral ones that roam the palace kitchens and stables. No one’s pet, they are – existing in their own little microcosm of ‘fight’ and ‘fuck’ and ‘eat’ and ‘sleep’.  They do on occasion deign contact with us; if it suits whatever whim of the day fills their mind or heart. And so it began to go with him – coming to my chambers by shadows, leaving before the candle could burn low. Or he’d steal me from an empty hallway, with his steely grip on my waist and fire on his silver tongue. Or falling into step with me as we returned from a skirmish, knowing the battle was still singing in my head – and that it demanded I confirm our lives, our continued presence the best way my body knows how.    

Even though he was a crown prince, with duties - _responsibilities_ – Loki was never anyone’s pet. Not even mine.

Especially not mine.

But nine nights and nine days have passed; this night, we’re expected to feast in his memory. It’s an elaborate ruse, constructed for the populace (those who know the truth are rewarded handsomely for their silence). We honor Loki: the good, albeit temporary king; who saved the Allmother and Allfather from Laufey and laid the path for Thor’s return. A cruel part of my mind suggests Loki is laughing at all of this in Helheim; great howls of sharp, cold laughter. But I’ve heard whispers that Heimdall does not see him there – of course; that too is meaningless.

So, here I sit in my chambers, staring at the dress I’ve pulled from the back of my wardrobe. I doubt any will remember the last time I wore it – Winter Finding, some years past. The bodice is worked in silver-coloured leather to resemble a loose scale-maille, with a sweep of heavy silk skirting.  What I alone know, is that he had it made for me for just that night. That he presented it to me by leaving it hanging exactly where it hangs now, while I bathed. That it stole my breath as I walked up to it; because he _knew_ me - knew that it was perfect, that it was…

 

*****

 

…“Simply _stunning_ …” he breathes against my ear as his hands settle on my shoulders; his bemused reflection appearing next to mine in the mirror.         

“Thank you, Loki. It is, isn’t it?” I purr, smoothing the dove-grey silk against my thigh. “Could you make yourself helpful and tighten me up? _I’d_ prefer to not be late, and unless _you’d_ prefer explaining away your presence to one of your mother’s handmaids…” I demur, sweeping my hair clear of my back with one hand.                 

“I much prefer the _unlacing_ , you know,” and he nips at my earlobe but complies, gently tugging up the slack and tying the laces off.          

“There will be plenty of time for that – if that is still your inclination - later, my love.” I close my eyes and lean back against him, savoring the solid feel of his chest. He pulls me closer, tenderly – one arm at my ribs and the other at my waist, fingertips brushing my hip. Feeling his chin sink to my shoulder, I steal a glance at the mirror. I’m rewarded with the sensation my heart might grow too heavy for my chest – because his face is mask-less; eyes soft and relaxed and _comforted_. His breaths come deep and easy as I slide my own hands over the backs of his, giving both a gentle squeeze. Mother Yggðrasil, why can’t it always be thus? A perfect, warm moment – without tensions, or expectations, or demands? Just as my heart settles into this new dimension it has found – there’s a knock at my door.                 

“Never enough time…” comes as a muttered whisper in the midst of his arms unwrapping and slipping away, into shadow.  

***

_“Ravens, we are ravens – circling in a field of wheat, of wildflowers…” is the murmur in my ear, warm and insistent. He spins me away then pulls me back against his chest; my bared shoulder pressed to his warm leathers. His fingers paint a stroke of seiðr across the inside of my wrist, and the image flares against my eyelids: looking down from the high ceiling of the hall; seeing us flow through the dancing throng - our black hair marking us, sounding us from the others._

***

The candles have burned low when he stalks out of the shadows, hair dripping wet and wildly curled. His posture radiates tension as he continues across the room, pulling aside one of the drapes that close off the balcony. In the weak starlight, his pale skin could be chiseled from a block of alabaster. I marvel at this for a breath-span: how foreign he looks; in this place of soft burnished golds. But that is what drew, and draws me still, to him - this commonality. We are both of us the outliers, here. The thin linen pants slung low on his hips ripple with a gust of wind, and not for the first time I wonder at his tolerance for the cold. I tug a blanket tighter around my shoulders, shivering involuntarily.         

“I know you’re awake.”

“A bit longer and I might not have been. Come to bed?”

He releases the drape, laying it closed and snaps his fingers at the hearth, augmenting the low flames with a serpentine green twist of seiðr. Crossing to my bed, he seats himself at the foot, facing the fire.

“What’s wrong, love?” I sigh, pulling the blanket around me like a shawl as I sit up against the headboard.

“You’re not even going to ask why I’m late?” he replies, with a smirk that I can’t see but can still feel – edged with something… hollow.

“Okay, then. Why are you late?”

“Because one of the damned sparrows saw fit to douse me with a full goblet of wine - after doing her best impression of a near-faint; falling against me in such a way as to maximize the points of contact. And I wouldn’t come to you smelling of her appallingly sweet scent, even though I know how you like-”

“Throwing herself at you - and you’re not flattered? I’d have tolerated her perfume, to get you into a bath with me.” I tease, lightly.

“Sif…” and the tension manifests in the set of his shoulders. Dropping the blanket and crawling across the bed, I settle myself on my knees behind him and splay my hands on his lower back. He edges into my touch, an unspoken acquiescence. I work my palms upward as if his spine is a ladder, rung by rung pressing the heels of my hands to either side. Reaching his shoulders, I set to kneading at the corded muscle. His head falls forward; an invitation to dig my thumbs in at the juncture of neck and shoulder.

“That’s not the whole of what bothers you, is it?”

“What if we…” he winces out, “what if we forgot all the discussions we’ve had, over the years – and instead, you answer a question for me.”

“What question is that?” I ease off kneading; begin make light, sweeping circles across his shoulder blades.

“What will you do when they tell me I must marry?”

“Loki, they’ll pressure Thor before ever-”

“That’s _not_ what I’m asking. Thor is certainly showing no initiative in the matter, and eventually they  will turn to me. What will you do?”

“I’ll hope you find yourself a good and loving wife; who will bear your children and continue the line of Odin,” I sigh, frustration-edged.

He spins around to face me at that, eyes masked but gaze no less fixing. “Because you will not.”

“Because I _cannot_. Look at me! I am War, I am Wrath. I sing through the slaughter, I am _wedded to the blade and the blood_. I can’t do that, can’t _be_ that with a babe at my breast. I’m not made for soft bellies and skinned elbows and lullabies. We’ve talked of this-”

“Before? No, _love_ , we’ve talked _around_ it. For years, now.” He drops his head again, exhaling hard. When he raises it this time, a muscle twitches below his left eye – a crack in his façade. “Fine, I have your answer. But what if I were to name you my… consort?”

“How would that be any better, or any different?” The moment the words leave my mouth, I regret them – because what slides over his face is no less a pained shock than if I’d slapped him.

“I would g-”, he starts, in a rush – then composes himself. “ _We_ would be able to keep this, us. Even if they forced me to marry, they _couldn’t_ separate us.” In a blink, his lips are on mine - arms around me, falling back against the pillows. He kisses fiercely, demandingly and before I can even respond he’s moving down my jaw, my throat, my breastbone… nipping  hard at my breast, he slips two fingers in as I gasp. Again, he nips – to the other side of my cleavage, and in one smooth motion withdraws the two and returns with three and his thumb on my pearl. My hips buck; I scrabble blindly for the lacings of his pants. His throaty laugh is a deliciously low rumble on the underside of my breast – and a crackle of seiðr vanishes the fabric so that my hands find _him_ , instead. 

Another crackle and my hands are pulled above my head, wrists bound by a knot of nothing but air. His hand works a hard rhythm and my thighs fall open, granting him the access we both want. Cool water droplets fall from his hair - spattering my chest, my stomach. For a moment, I will him to look up at me, to meet my eyes – wanting the water to be tears. I _want_ him to be grieving what we’ll lose. But the moment passes as he crooks his fingers and the wave of pleasure tips over me, drowning me whole. I gasp, then bite my lip - stifling a moan. My eyes flutter closed as I feel his weight shift, pulling his hand away and trailing kisses down my thigh to my knee.

“ _Why_ do you do that, love? Why swallow that pleasure you feel?” And he becomes all softness; gentled and nuzzling at my breast. There’s a hiss of air and my wrists come free. I let them drop to the pillows, then reach for his waist and tug him bodily between my thighs.

“Because… ( _I am afraid. Of feeling too much, and not enough, and what will become of me, and what we are_) there is always more pleasure to come.” And taking his hard length in hand, I guide him into me. One languid roll of his hips, and another, and he’s _so_ deep. There is nothing in all the nine realms like this moment, this singular moment when the connection between us _blooms_. He sets a slow, easy pace ( _the lope of a horse, the tide meeting the shore_ ), born of our years together and the sinuous strength of his body. His hair falls forward, casting his eyes in a deep shadow. Seized by some desperate need to see them, I tuck locks behind his ear - which sets the firelight dancing across the plane of his cheekbone. He leans his jaw into my cupped palm, then turns to brush a kiss there. My fingers slip down, down his neck; that palm coming to rest above his heart. The steady thrum of it, so reassuring… I’ve been trailing my other hand up and down his spine, lazily; but now I rest it in the small of his back, and shift the cant of my hips.

“Love…” I sigh, as he quickens his thrusts.

“I love you, Sif… my lover… oh my beloved…” Sweet murmurs, before lowering his lips to mine. _So_ soft. And the more gently he treats me, the more fragile I feel. I want the _fire_ , the all-consuming _drive_ – my  soul’s armor. But it won’t come; just his lips, tips of his hair brushing my cheeks. He slows again, nestling his head against my neck. Threading my fingers in his hair, I hear this keening whine before I’m aware it comes from my own throat…

“Yes… Love, yes…” more murmurs paint my skin, even as his breathing starts to go ragged. One fingertip kisses my pearl with seiðr as his body remains steady and sure and deliberate and oh, _oh… waves. Undulating… subtle. A tide returning. I feel… ohh. This… rippling beauty…_ He stills, and the _warmth of his coming… waves against waves, of wordless colour… more dazzling than the Bifrost… than the aurora I saw once on Midgard.  _

He wraps his arms around me, pulling me against his chest and rolling to his side. Stroking my back, my hair and his thumb swipes tears from my… _tears? When did I…?_

“Loki?” My voice breaks, my heart opens and he’s murmuring shapeless soothing words at the crown of my head. He pulls me tighter to him, letting go one shuddering breath.

“I know you cannot be my consort. It would mean losing the respect of the men serving below you. They see you as one of them; and to be mine would mark you as… less. I shall always wish, though, that at the least it could be so. But I will not ruin what you’ve worked so hard for.” His voice is tight, solemn. Sleep insists, will not be denied as slender, ever-graceful fingers stroke through my hair.   

 

*****

 

That night was the first ‘last’: the first tether broken, the last time he stayed until dawn. We woke, and went about our day – and did not discuss the matter again. To think now – if I had acquiesced, become his wife – I would have been, for a day’s span, a queen.

And I would not have been there, on Midgard, to drive my glaive through the Destroyer.

 

Enough. No more. I mustneeds busy my mind, my hands. Stripping the lacing out of the back of the dress – that will do. It has to be done. And then, the re-lacing of it from the top down.

So that - handmaids be damned - I am able to tighten it myself.

 

                       


	2. Burning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Loki's return to Asgard results in Sif being pulled in to Frigga's and Eir's plans...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's quite a time-lapse between the previous chapter and this one: this picks up a couple months after the events of "Avengers", with a good bit of Sif's memories thrown in.
> 
> There's no Loki in this chapter - but there is Eir, who I discovered I kinda enjoy writing. There is sort-of a discussion of PTSD (in a military context). There's some feels - but the real feels come in the next chapter....

 

 

“At least it wasn’t a wyrm this time, Lady Sif. But have a care for small children tripping near to braziers in the future, hmm?” Eir’s smiling voice is kind - but not without mirth. With a deftness born of her centuries of practice, she snips off and tucks in the end of a linen bandage around my forearm.

“I shall endeavor to do so, Eir. And I believe that it will be some time hence until both lit braziers and Volstagg’s children are in the same room. Geerta is unharmed, then?”

“She is, thanks to your reflexes. I’d like you to return on the morrow for a dressing change.”

“Before or after the day’s training session?” I ask, hoping to limit her options. Training has to be run; and of late, the very green youths need more instruction than Hogun’s terseness if they’ve any hope of learning.

“After will do just fine,” she laughs. “I’d have said otherwise if I thought the burn warranted your – oh, Kjetil – you should be abed at this hour…”

I turn in the direction of her gaze to find a young man, pale eyes staring at me… vacant, is the best word. Eir escorts him away gently, as recognition dawns. I know him – trained him some, and yet I don’t recall him being among the wounded from the last skirmish on Vanaheim. Eir returns, drawing a heavy drape closed behind her. She puts a finger to her lips and takes my shoulder in hand, steering me out of the room.

“Walk with me?” she asks, once we’ve reached the hallway.

“Eir, I know that man – well, I know _of_ that man. What ails him? I did not see him among-”

“He is not wounded in body; but in mind. It happens rarely, but it does happen.” I am about to ask – seiðr? – when she cuts me off again. “I mean no unkindness, Lady Sif. Seiðr is not the cause, nor can it be the cure. Some warriors are… they believe themselves prepared, they _know_ themselves to be prepared – and then, a battle happens and they are… _changed_ by it. Not for the better. Young Kjetil is an admittedly extreme example, but surely you have seen this before. The brash warrior; who returns from his first - or even his hundred-and-first campaign – a different man, in both his actions and words.”

“I have seen it,” I nod.

“We are working at methods to aid these men. Our renewed contact with Midgard has actually proved helpful… that such a fractious race as mortals have been able to give us insight is surprising, but we are aided. These warriors of ours do not need pity - nor do they need to be shamed. They do, however, need some very basic things: the camaraderie of others, someone to listen to their words without judgment, rest-”

“Eir? Why do you tell me this?” I ask, stopping abruptly.

“Because, Lady Sif – the Allmother and I are of a mind, on this. And we’d like to see more brought to this manner of thinking, the Allfather among them. All who have been affected by violence in this way deserve equal treatment, and equal access to that treatment. I’d like to speak more on this with you. Will you have time after your session tomorrow, to spare for me? Perhaps, with your assistance, the Allfather could be made to see the merits of-”

“Are we still speaking only of our warriors now?”

She meets my eyes, her own gone blade-sharp and unwavering. “We are, and we are not. It would mean a great deal to our queen, and to me - if this could be accomplished. Rest well, my lady.” At that, she turns on her heel.

I listen to the whisper of her robes as she departs, before continuing to my own chambers. Eir and the Allmother have been close friends for long years; but for the Allmother to concern herself so with this means one thing, to me – she would use this as an opportunity to have access to her son. It has been an open secret at court that Frigga would like to see him more gently treated; however, the ‘why’ behind her reasoning remains something known only to her. I cannot fathom his deserving even more mercy: the would-be World-killer, the traitor to the realm. To the _realms_ , I correct myself. The one who murdered Laufey, sent the Destroyer to kill Thor, attempted to annihilate Jötunheim and all its inhabitants, and brought the Chitauri down upon Midgard. The ‘Mad Prince’ - who has sat almost the turn of two moons in a cell, awaiting the Allfather’s decision on a ‘suitable’ punishment.

Yet he is also the man I counted as a friend for most of my life, and then as my lover, as well. The man who openly supported my choices before any others did. _The boy who cut my hair for me, when my shaking hands would not allow it; and who also tried to help me grow it back when in a moment of weakness I regretted doing so._ And he had died, and I’d grieved, and that was that. It is those good and warm memories that have dissuaded me from attempting to see him now - because the man who was brought back to us bears such little resemblance to them.

 

***

 

_One of Thor’s hands held the crucible containing the Tesseract, the other sat heavy on Loki’s shoulder. He was bound at the wrists, and… muzzled? Breath would not come as I watched his steps, favoring his right leg slightly - but as for tears, all mine had been shed many months ago. I needn’t worry they’d rise and sting themselves free. He tried for haughty, for arrogant – but fell far short in my eyes. I knew his body as well as I know my own; could guess at the wounds hidden by clothing, by skin, by muscle just from the set of his walk – and there were many, I was certain. And he had earned them all, should feel them all, for all the pain he’d wrought in the last days… the intervening year. Their slow but steady progress passed me - and then his gaze swung back, levelly meeting mine. _

_They were not the eyes of the man I knew, mask or no mask. It hurt to see the arrogance was not an act – it may have been all that powered him, at that point. Whether he intended to look straight at me - or straight through me, I did not know. I still do not know._

 

*

 

_Late that night (so late as to be closer to dawn than dusk), there is a knock at my door. Ponderous, but polite – a knock only Thor can make. I don’t hesitate to let him in._

_“I’m sorry if I’ve disturbed you, Sif. Did I wake you? I’ve just been walking, and my feet led me here, and-”_

_“No, you haven’t. I’ve not slept, and don’t think I’m like to.” I gesture toward the balcony, air still warm in the midsummer darkness. We sit on the benches there in companionable silence for a few minutes, looking to the stars._

_“I missed her. Jane, I mean. It pains me that I did not have the opportunity to see her. But at the least, she was kept safe. By SHIELD, though I suspect she does not know the truth of that…” he trails off, looking again to the stars, to Mother Yggðrasil._

_“I am sorry to know you didn’t have the chance.” And it’s like a spear through my lungs, suddenly: Loki is back - is alive \- but Thor is still without the mortal he holds so dear. Anger rises, burning away the spear and subsuming the pain – I can’t, I won’t acknowledge it.  _

_“So, Sif – what have I missed?” he replies with a note of desperate sunniness, running a hand over his head as if to brush off the moment. We talk then, amiably, of the goings-on of the last few days. Just below the surface of my thoughts ghosts the memory of the many long nights we’d spent in our youth, chatting this way. He makes a pointed remark about one of our less-favorite courtiers and reflexively I turn my head – looking for the silent smirk of agreement; below bright blue-green eyes dancing with… no. We are two. Not three. And not like to ever be three again._

_“Sif?” and his voice is a note of concern. I shake my head no; dropping my chin to my chest, exhaling hard. “There is… other information I’d like to share, but if you’re-”_

_“If this is about Loki, just go ahead and say whatever it is needs saying. I know about his parentage – for some reason, your mother thought I should be informed. Doubtless, she wondered which of us would be sent to…” Looking up, I see his eyes have gone wide - dark and full as the skies when he summons a storm._

_“You know he is Jötunn?”_

_“Yes, and I’ve made my peace with it.” A hard fought peace, I do not add. That the so-called ‘monster of our childhood’ was one and the same as the man I love – loved. But he had no knowledge of it, had been kept from knowing - and how could I fault him for that? In the end, I’d settled on the idea – he was Loki. Not exactly Aesir, but also certainly not Jötunn – a singular individual. Perhaps that made my heart hurt all the more, because who else in this realm would so keenly understand that kind of uniqueness. “Actually, being told that helped to explain some of his actions – not to say that it excused them.” _

_“I think some part of him was broken, in the way he learned of it. And I will carry guilt over that unto my last breath. If it hadn’t been for my-”_

_“And if it hadn’t been for his plan to disrupt your investiture…” I interject, not allowing Thor to sink any deeper into that particular melancholy. He takes the hint, looking away and shrugging._

_“Before our return from Midgard, he railed at me that I was simply taking him to be ‘another relic, under lock and key’… he compares himself to the Casket, Sif. I think that, I think he’s… (‘gone mad’ is unspoken, hanging between us)…I think the Tesseract has harmed his mind. There was, in our battle, a moment that I’ve turned over and over, trying to understand. We were grappling and he was completely fear-stricken; telling me it was too late to stop the Chitauri. When I said we could do it together, he snarled something about ‘sentiment’ and buried his dagger in my side. The snarl was a mask, Sif. The fear was true. Perhaps once he’s been free of the influence of both the Tesseract and that damnable staff he carried for some time…”and he rubs at his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose. He then fumbles at his pocket; a glint of silver reflecting starlight… the dagger seems so small in his palm, like a deadly toy. Hilt first, he offers it to me. “I trust you, to keep this for him. Until such time as he has need of it again.”_

_“Thor, I (…will not cry. I will not.)-”  _

_“You have been his friend, Sif. Near as long as he and I have been brothers. So, I ask of you, please - keep this for him.”_

_I can only nod, swallowing hard around the constriction in my throat. The metal is cool, even for the time spent close to his warmth. So light, so balanced… he has no way to know how often I had held it, before. My thumb glides along the flat of the blade. Even under the calluses, it’s sleek, frictionless. Something in my mind breaks loose, something shaped like loss and longing._

_“For you, I will do this. I wish I could hold the hope for him that you still do. But I do not think it will ever be thus.” My voice gone low and tight is a foreign thing coming from my own mouth. Thor sighs at this, bodily. Without another word, he stands and leaves._

_Later, it is Sunna’s cresting of the horizon that pulls me back to reality. My hand absently moves to sheathe the dagger at the small of my back as I stand, and this shocks me even more than the look in Loki’s eyes did… I set it instead on a shelf just inside, where the books of poetry he’d gifted me over the years stand both sentinel and mute._

***

 

The itch of the sweat-soaked bandage under my vambrace is maddening by the end of training. Eir isn’t present when I arrive to have the burn checked, so I’m passed off to a novice. She’s tight-lipped and efficient; when I ask if the burn is healing well she nods curtly and resumes re-wrapping. Just as she finishes Eir approaches, with a journeywoman healer’s robe draped over her arm.

“I trust the burn is improved, Lady Sif? And that you have the time I hoped for, to spare?” she asks, gesturing with her free arm toward the long hall leading to the royal suites. “If so, walk with me for a bit.”

“Your student indicated as much, yes – though she seemed a bit nervous.”

“Well, it’s not every day a novice is given the opportunity to treat the fiercest warrior in Asgard, you know. Your intimidating reputation precedes you. How goes the training?” she chides, laughing lightly. I smile back, but it is less-than genuine.

“Eir, I mean no insult – but I’d prefer we save the pleasantries for a more social visit.” I’m curious about the robe she carries, but hold my tongue – could be it needs mending, or some bit of seiðr-blessing from the Allmother.

“Ah, but the afternoon is pleasant; and I’ve a destination in mind. We’re almost to Frigga’s gardens, and they’re so lovely this time of year. Peaceful.” And probably shielded by her magik, I silently add. This does not bode well.

Upon entering the gardens, we walk a twisting path to their center - where a stone fountain sprays gently against brass bowls, setting them to chime softly. Eir sits on a low bench; laying the cloak to the side, she motions for me to join her.

“Understand, Lady Sif – I too meant no insult. What I mustneeds discuss with you is better kept away from certain ears.”

“The Allfather’s?” and my eyebrow rises.

“Yes, his are among them. Alright, here’s the truth of it: I would have you accompany me to the cells today. Wearing this robe so as to disguise you - because the Allmother has said he’s mentioned you, of late.”

I have a heartbeat’s length to school my eyes into something neutral. “So? The prince has mentioned me. It does not mean I desire to see him, nor do I desire to potentially incur Odin’s anger-”

“Sif, please hear me out. Your _queen_ asks this of you. The prince is… somewhat returned to himself; but there are things he _will not_ discuss. Things that, given some explanation, she believes could weigh in his favor as the Allfather determines his punishment. All your queen asks is one visit, an hour of your time.” By the last, she has laid her hand on my arm – as plaintive a gesture as Eir’s comportment will allow. “We have no hope of disguising Thor, nor do we believe Loki would speak with him. Since he has mentioned you, we-”

“Enough. Fine. I will do this, in service of my queen.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for the kudos so far! And comments are welcomed, for sure. :-)
> 
>  
> 
> (Have any of you lovely writers ever had a non-p.o.v. character do something that blindsided you completely? Thor did that, in this chapter... I had to walk. Away. From. The. Keyboard. Because of the feels.)


	3. Breathing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sif is delivered to Loki's cell, and emotions happen. It's not pretty, folks. 
> 
> (Loki describes the torture he was subjected to, with some detail.)

 

 

So it happens I find myself shedding weaponry in Frigga’s garden and donning a deeply hooded healer’s robe; then walking with Eir unimpeded to the cells. While doing so, she quietly explains the robe is indeed charmed – though not really any moreso than usual. Its magik allows passage in and out of the barrier-field; one necessity the Allfather cannot deny, in case of illness or injury. And so it also happens that I approach Loki’s cell, where he sits placidly with a book open on his lap. He does not raise his eyes – nor does he turn a page - and even before we’re through the barrier I’m acutely aware he’s projecting an image of himself…

 

 

“It appears he’s done it again – drunk his week’s ration of wine in one go,” Eir sighs, dejectedly. Her hands hover over his sleeping form, checking for injuries. “He was never one for drinking to excess before…”

My eyes register that she is still talking, but for the pounding of my blood everything has gone silent. He is _here_ , he is _alive_. I could just reach out, and _touch_ … Reflexively my hand seeks my sword-hilt to stem the flow of emotion, and too late I remember it is not there – blessedly, the robe hides my clenching fingers. Abed, he looks _fragile_ , made from porcelain like some highborn daughter’s doll; though I know that to be far from truth. His wrists and forearms are bone-thin, eyes shadowed, dark blue veins visible as rivers under pale skin. His hair has become a wild tendrilled mass, longer than I’ve ever known him to allow. The beat of my heart grows so heavy, so loud I believe Eir could mark it even at this distance.

“Sif? Would you like me to speed the wine from his blood, or not?” Her voice is sharp, and I realise that she’s likely asking that for a second time.

“No. He was always amiable-enough when he…” and he rolls from one side to the other, shirt falling open to the waist. “Mother Yggðrasil, what _happened to him_?” I whisper, my stomach roiling. Scars. A web of white scars cross his torso, with a slightly puckered one the breadth of my  hand below his ribs on the right side. A convulsive shiver propels me forward, bracing my hands at the foot-rail. I’m reaching, _searching_ for the anger that has been my heart’s shield all this time, since he let go – and cannot find it. It’s dissipated, like so much smoke at the sight. I had wanted… _I had wanted him to feel every wound he’d acquired on Midgard. I never thought…_

“That,” she says gently, turning to me and catching my gaze, “is what he will not clearly explain. Not to me, not to Frigga. He closes himself off when we press, will only say that he was ‘helped’.”

“Helped? How was this…? This is not the result of the battle on Midgard, then. It was before that.” She nods in agreement while backing away from his bedside.

“The scars are certainly older than that; most of them are well-faded. His back is much the same, sadly. Some are the result of blade-work; more are burns. What I cannot speak to with certainty is how he acquired them. It is Frigga’s hope that he’ll be willing to tell you. Now, if you’re certain you’ll be fine, I’ll go and see to the guards on rotation for a while. I will not be out of earshot; should you have need of me, just yell. As I said earlier - this cell dampens his seiðr’s strength and disallows certain charms, but does not completely halt his use of it.” I sit down at the head of the bed gingerly, not wanting to risk disturbing or frightening him. Drawing breath has become something that requires too much conscious effort; my lungs feel suddenly too small.

“He _would_ not and _will_ not hurt me. We’ve known each other too well for that,” I assert. “But before you go, please tell me – what was the nature of this ‘mentioning’?” Her stare is palpable; and I know without looking her head is tilted, trying to analyze the first part of what I’ve just said. Perhaps it was too much; but what of it? Someone, some _thing_ hurt him – badly - and my rage has found and seized a new purpose: it wants nothing but to deal retribution. 

“It’s something he’s repeated, in his dreaming. Warning you of a river, that you should not cross it – and a child you should let go of.” I hear the whisper of her robes as she turns; the hum of the barrier as she passes through it. And then, there is only the sound of his breathing, and mine. I _thought_ I was done. I thought this was _over_. I had painted him in shades of wrath in my mind, to cope; and come now to see that I used the wrong palette – he is loss, the deep blue-blacks of a moonless midnight. Breathing as slowly as possible to steady my heart, I wonder how best to wake him. He has ever been a deep sleeper – and moreso with wine in him. Gently, I tuck a lock of hair back from his forehead, trying not to close my eyes because… because suddenly I know on the deepest level of my being that this, _this_ could be the last time. The Allfather has made no judgment yet, but his justice is not gentle. He could be exiled, he could be…

My eyes snap open as strong fingers encircle and squeeze my wrist. I see that his are open too, and something surfaces in them - pain, and a cry for mercy – before the rapid blinks that are his all-too familiar way of orienting the world. Still gripping my wrist, he sits up sharply and pushes back my hood with his other hand. Curiosity fleets across, then indifference settles heavily on his face.

“My lady, I hadn’t thought to see you here. Has my absence affected you so that you’ve given up the battle for… gentler pursuits?” he purrs, edged with malice. The grip on my wrist loosens fractionally.

“You flatter yourself, Silvertongue. I am still War; you needn’t worry. And absence, you call it? We thought you dead, you know.” My tone is mild, hoping not to provoke him.

“Did you _grieve_ me, my lady?” he purrs again, relaxing his grip but leaning closer to me. “Did you _long for_ what was lost to you?” The nearness threatens to overwhelm me. He is a wave of scents: his favorite spiced wine, the tang of sweat - and under that – leather, crisp cold winter air. It tugs at a memory of Yule… that Yule…

“I did, my lord. I grieved. I mourned. I wondered why we’d allowed-”

“Then you reacted appropriately,” he interrupts drolly, releasing my wrist. “I am not the man who fell. He did die.”

“If that is so, who am I speaking with?”

“The monster that took his place,” he replies, casually.

“You are no monster, my lord.”

“Oh, but I am. You do _know_ that – what I _am_ , do you not? The world-killer, the mad prince, the Jötunn who actually sat the throne of Asgard… Why are you here, my lady?” He punctuates the last with a stretch of his arms, lacing his fingers behind his head.

“I’ve come to see you. To hear from your own lips what happened to you.”

“Something you could have as easily accomplished from outside-” he gestures with his chin toward the barrier, “-satisfying your curiosity. Your lover is dead, and you grieved, and-”

“You are very much alive, Loki.” Something shifts subtly in his face, at that. “Yet you sit in this cell, unrepentant, and allow the Allfather to choose for you how the rest of your life will play out. You _allow_ yourself to be the relic under lock and key – but you are _living, breathing flesh._ What _happened_ to you?” ( _That he used the word ‘lover’ was impetus enough for me to use his name…_ )  Jaw clenched, he swallows hard; unlacing his fingers and dropping his hands ungracefully to his lap. He studies them intently for a long moment before looking up. Bright eyes bore into mine, and his lip curls slowly into a sneer… _as the green shifts and fades to a fiery red._ In the periphery, a blue cast swirls into his skin; chill radiating from his body. I stifle an urge to shiver, aware that I can show no discomfort.

“You speak of repentance?” he snarls, low and venomously. “I owe _him_ repentance? He knew, he _knew_ what I am and kept it from me. I owe him _nothing_! By my birthright, I am a  king! And I? Have slaughtered far, _far_ fewer than the king you’ve sworn your allegiance to, shieldmaiden. What have I to repent, if he has naught?” He spits the last, rising from the bed and stalking around the cell. I turn, tracking him with my eyes – even though I am loathe to admit it; I feel less than safe in this moment showing him my back.

“Was it your intent to frighten me with that display? I say again, Loki: you are no monster. And I ask again: what happened to you? When you… fell.” The deepening blue of his Jötunn skin seems riddled with cracks – the thin white scars still visible on his torso. He shucks his shirt and ( _clearly the scar below his rib is a badly healed burn_ ) stalks toward me. I stand up, balancing my weight - preparing for whatever he might do next. He stops a few feet short, breaths coming rapid and shallow. He stares at the floor as one hand clenches to a fist, then looks up sharply.

“If my lady is so insistent, I should share, yes? You want so badly to know? I was _helped_. They showed me what they believed to be my limits, and over and over I _exceeded_ them. They drained my blood to see how little I could survive on. They cut away my flesh, bone-deep - to see if I could figure out how to mend it. They throttled me, beat me, _burned_ me - what better way to torture a Jötunn than with fire, with _heat_.” His hand slaps down across the burn-scar, an eerie contrast of blue against white against the black of his fingernails.  “And when I surpassed all that, they brought me beasts I’d never seen nor read of, stripped my seiðr away and left me to fight with blunted weapons and bare hands. And oh, that wasn’t the end of it. Innocent creatures, my lady; they brought me _innocents_ ,” he hisses, “telling me I could have my seiðr back if I harmed them. If I killed them. So yes, my lady – I am a monster. More than my Jötunn blood. So _much_ _more_.”

“Loki…” Despite the steel of my resolve, his name breaks on my lips.

“No. No. I will not have your pity. Leave me.” His head drops again, and with it, his voice - a low growl, just above a whisper. It is desperately desirous that no one look any deeper than the surface. This is a tone of voice I know too well, heard too oft years ago – when everything unraveled between us. It is Loki defending his pain, hoarding it as though it’s all he can call his own.

“This is not pity. This is _concern_. You have been in my life far too long for me to turn my back on you, to not _feel_ for you.” My palms ache, fingers twitch with the want to hold him, to soothe him somehow… the blue fades from his skin, and the fire in his eyes cools to the green that is so like his seiðr where it curls from his fingertips.

“Your _concern_ is moot. I am not that man any longer, who you profess to have ‘felt’ for. What there was of him burned away when the choice was made to learn and become _so_ _much_ stronger. Death and darkness was the only path offered there. That man? He would  not have lived.” His tongue is sharp as it ever has been by the last, pupils blown wide and dark.

“War does not recoil from Death, Loki. _You_ made a choice. Make another. There is _always_ a choice available to each of us. You are aware that it is only the words of Eir and your mother-”

“She is _not_ my mother-”

“- that keep you from exile, or worse. Tell them what has happened to you.”

“Leave me. _Leave_ me! Or be aware that I _will_ call the guards, who will be so _very_ keen to share news of your visit. Do not attempt to return, either. We are done.”

“We are not, Loki.”

“Oh… oh, we _are_ , my _lady_. You, who would not _lower_ yourself to be neither my wife nor my consort? Go - beggar yourself to the golden boy. Perhaps if you can keep your sordid past – fucking a Jötunn - a secret, he’ll have you. Or have you _again_ , as it may be-” My palm connects with his cheek before I can even think, his head snapping to the side. The grinning reply is all teeth and sharpness as he raises a hand to the bright red blooming there; brushing his cheekbone with just the tips of his fingers, a gesture that looks disturbingly like reverence. Too late, I realise I’ve given him something I didn’t know he wanted – more anger and pain. I school my expression to neutrality ( _oh I have learned from the best_ ), flip up the hood of the robe, and start to walk away.

“Sif?” The gentle tone of my name from his lips is far more bruising than if he’d slapped me in kind. I pause, but do not turn. “Believe me, when I say this: I am a danger, even to myself – but moreso to those who once loved me. There is not, and should not be any hope for me.”

“I choose to believe otherwise. You are still you, Loki.” Shrugging one shoulder, my tone is matter-of-fact. “I know that to be true, even though I can’t say why, exactly. And the truth of it, for me? In my own way, I have not stopped loving you - and I am not like to stop, even now. War recoils from neither Death nor Fear. Whatever danger you present? Matters not. But if it is truly your wish, I will not come to see you again.”

The hitch in his breathing is the only betrayal of his feelings, a small thing - but it is enough. Oh, I _want_ for more – want him to reach for me, to say my name again, to _do_ something. Warring with my better judgment, I turn in time to see him step backward to the wall behind him, then slide down against it to sit on the floor. He pulls his knees to his chest and drops his head to them, hair falling forward in a dark drape.

“I do not know what I wish,” he whispers, sounding so like the boy who had been the first - the _only_ to know my heart. With the well of his venom spent, it seems he’s finally found honesty at the bottom. He tries to smooth over one shallow shuddering breath, then another.

“When you’ve figured that out, you will find a way to let me know. In the meantime, I… will leave my dreams open to you, again. If you are able to reach them, you are welcome there.”

“I would extend the same invitation, but I’m afraid… you would not like what you find,” he laughs, mirthlessly. I drop to a crouch, to meet him at eye-level.

“Is that why you’re drinking? Your dreams?” ( _Hela’s bones, I want to touch him. But if I do, oh if I do…_)

“One night of sound sleep in seven is better than none.” He looks up, shock playing across his face – disbelieving his own lack of guardedness. His head drops again, with a heavy sigh. “ _Why_ have you come, Sif?” The rawness of this question stings even _my_ throat. I swallow hard, weighing the explanations I can provide: each of them a truth, but none of them complete.

“Honesty for honesty?” He nods, barely. “I was asked to come, by both Eir and your… and the Allmother,” I offer, remembering his earlier reaction. “They hoped you would tell me the nature of…”

“They hoped to learn something that would prevent my summary execution. Charming.” He angles his head, peering out at me from behind his ink-black hair. “And for what? An eternity of these walls, instead of some measure of-”

“Of what, Loki? Do not dare say to me ‘freedom’.” He chuckles low in his throat; and we’ve come full circle - the malice-edge returned to his voice. “Damn you. _Damn_ you. If you’ve such a death wish, ask for it. Don’t hide behind-”

“What makes you think I have not? Asked for it, that is. Why do you think I was so reticent to explain…”

I foolishly hope the sharp intake of breath that follows is all in my head, but clearly he’s heard it. His head raises the rest of the way, appraising me with a disinterested mask in place. A derisive snort, a narrowing of his gaze and I _feel_ him slipping behind walls that never used to exist between us. Or maybe they did, and I was blind to them. All I’m certain of is that I have only one more volley…

“You should know, there was a time, not so long ago…” I force myself to swallow the tremor in my voice. “A time that I thought on what I would do – what I would be willing to do, to return you to me. Hanging from Mother Yggðrasil, for nine days and nights? That seemed an acceptable price to pay, if I could be certain it would grant the charms to bring you back…”

“You would even deny me the peace of death? Oh, Sif… Perhaps you’ve promoted yourself to be her mistress. It would not be inappropriate-”

“Shut. Up. I will not listen to this. I bare my heart, speak to you words that are tantamount to blasphemy, and you _make jokes_?” Springing to my feet, I close the space between us in two quick strides. Dropping to my knees in front of him, I reach for his hand ( _damn it all, damn me, I will fall again and not look back he is here and will. not. Leave. Me. Again._) and he flinches, pulling them both away from his knees, into his lap.

“Don’t touch me.” His voice is a bared blade, but his eyes… there’s such a want, a _hunger_ in them.

“I… I don’t under-”

“No, you don’t.” The malice bleeds away, leaving a tightness he forces articulation around. “You won’t. You _can’t_. And be glad for that. Go, Sif. You’ve learned what you were sent to learn. Tell who you would; keep me here to serve out whatever sentence the Allfather sees fit to deliver. Do not expect me in your dreams. Do not look for me.”

“But-”

“No.” And he _smiles_ , tight-lipped and slight but so genuine. His eyes are wet, though I know those tears will not fall in my presence. “Do not beg, Sif. It’s… unbecoming, from you.” I hold his gaze, will not shrink from it ( _and in my mind, I’m reaching for him anyway – grabbing his knees with one hand, his jaw with the other and kissing him, kissing him full and deep and not letting us breathe until we must, and wrapping my arms around him, curling him against my chest, refusing to allow him to hide, to wallow, to drown…_ )

“Goodbye, Sif.” His eyes flick over my shoulder, then back to me. Numb; I stand, turn, and walk to the barrier. Eir approaches, unhurried, and some small part of my mind clamors out a weak and too-late warning: his illusion. Is still intact. And in a sharp contrast to my entrance, where the hum of the barrier came first and lingered – the first sensation, the _only_ sensation as I step out, is the caress of his seiðr… ( _a brush of his impossibly elegant fingers, a sunlit warmth on my hair when it was still golden, a raven feather tickling the nape of my neck…_ )

 

If Eir notices the sob I choke down, she says nothing. And when my feet are less than graceful on the stairs up, she silently offers her arm.

I stumble because of what I’m hearing ( _what I fiercely, fervently wish I was not hearing_ …)

 

If she is aware of the muted guttural scream - she has the decency, the _generosity_ to not ask.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaaand scene - this section is over. (But the series is not...)
> 
> My continued thanks to all who are reading! 
> 
> Comments and reviews are greatly encouraged and gladly accepted. :-)

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for the lovely reception so far! 
> 
> Comments and feedback are always welcomed and encouraged.


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